


Collateral Damage

by obsessorofmusic



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Attack on Titan AU, Depression, Garrison Regiment, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Military, Military Police, Military theme, Not just a love story, Past and Present, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Some Swearing, Squad, Suicidal Thoughts, Trigger Warnings, War, bad language, survey corps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-17 09:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10590822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessorofmusic/pseuds/obsessorofmusic
Summary: Honorably discharged from the military, Ex-Commander of the Survey Corps Erwin Smith is struggling settling in to domestic life. How did everything go so wrong? Is there more to this? As his past comes back to haunt him, Erwin tries to cope with both uncovering the truth and affairs of the heart...





	1. Merciless Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> *PLEASE NOTE THE TRIGGER WARNINGS IN TAGS*  
> This chapter is partially inspired by the song 'Mustard Gas', from 'Act 3- Life and Death' by The Dear Hunter. Quoted lyrics belong to them. All characters not OC belong to original creator etc.  
> Enjoy.

 

> **_"We've never felt alive,_ **
> 
> **_But none of us can die just when we want to._ **
> 
> **_We're stuck in this disguise,_ **
> 
> **_With leather skin these eyes decide to haunt you._ **
> 
> **_But do we haunt you?"_ **

 

The air cracked with a heavy explosion overhead, and the ground ruptured beneath Erwin Smith’s feet. He stumbled, catching the rumbling Earth beneath his palms and pushing himself back onto his feet. He glanced round at his dazed troops, weary after only an hour of battle. The dark splattered Earth was mingled with grim bloody bodies, effaced with the destruction of conflict, and the stiff limbs of their horses left lifeless in the chaos. Bodies everywhere, littering the battle ground, some of them rebels, others of their own Survey Corps, bits blown off by the screaming artillery and thundering guns from the distant horizon.

  
   Plumes of smoke rose into the angry scarlet sunset, blown by the wind onto the battle field. About him, Erwin caught the image of the Wings of Freedom, the soiled uniform of his troops, stained and abandoned in the sucking mud. Troops flew back and forth with their Three Dimensional Manoeuvre Gear, some being shot down in mid-air.  
_“COMMANDER! COMMANDER, WHAT DO WE DO?!”_

  
   Erwin spun round at the call, a young female private was calling out to him through the ruination. In her arms was her injured comrade, gulping in air through the blood pouring out of her mouth. They were joined by others, who had halted behind the leading commander, some only vaguely visible, crouched in a make-shift trench. Erwin scrutinised the battle field, crouching low with them, their knees sinking into the squelching sludge, guns aimed at any possible target.  
How had they managed to break their formation so easily? He was one of the best strategists in the military, how had they been so easily jeopardised? He peered at the uneasy faces of his followers.

  
_“We carry on! We are the Survey Corps! Remember that! WE GIVE OUR HEARTS!”_ Erwin shouted back at his squadron, rousing them into action, some saluting, whilst others began to return the injured to the safety of their line, retreating back to their side of the field.  
_“ENGAGE 3D FLIGHT. AIM FOR THE TREES AND BUILDINGS, TAKE AS MANY OF THE FUCKERS OUT AS YOU CAN. ONWARD!”_

  
   With that Erwin took to the air, followed by his soldiers. Bullets flew past them, and they returned the fire with their own, taking out some of the gun operators to the West of the field. But it wasn’t enough… All about Erwin were the screams of the injured and dying, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the gritty splinters of tree bark and dirt beneath his nails. What can be done now?

  
   Another squeal signalled more shells dropping behind, and the ground split once more. His group dropped like flies, overwhelmed by the assault. Across the field, the red flares rose up desperately as the casualties mounted. Erwin landed in a tree, and ripped his knives from his belt, cutting down two of the rebels relentlessly, ignoring their despairing pleas for mercy. There was no time to be caring in a war.

  
   Suddenly, another influx of T.I.T.A.N rebels flew across the no man’s land, butchering his troops. Erwin cursed as he gasped for breath that never seemed to come. He re-sheathed his knives, unloading the enemy gun and kicking it violently from its tree perch. He took off again, using the remaining gas in his cylinders to take out the rebels headed towards a group of soldiers mid-field. He landed, shooting up at the sky at the advancing rebels, covering the group.  
_“Commander! What do we do?! We are overwhelmed, we have lost! It’s time to give in! There’s too many of them! We’re being killed for fucking sport- WATCH OUT!”_  
Another tumultuous explosion shook the suffering Earth, and the group tumbled down into the stifling mud. Disorientated, the commander rose once more. The smoke made them blind and Erwin knew they were right. He nodded.

  
   A rebel suddenly took him down, landing square upon him, pressing a ragged knife too close to his throat. Erwin grunted, the air knocked out of him and lashed around forcefully. Landing a kick to the rebel’s chest, and hearing the satisfying crack of bone, he fired gun, killing the rebel. He looked back at the group, half of which only now remained alive, and signalled with flailing arms.  
_“RETREAT! ENGAGE FLIGHT AND RETREAT!”_ he screamed back to them, and anyone who could hear. Another flare went up in the distance, close, a dark purple in the sea of blackening mist.  
_“GAS! GAS ENCOMING!”_ someone screeched in the distance. Erwin shouted the message to the others and fumbled for his mask, suddenly clumsy hands grasping at his harness. A soldier landed before him staggering, choking from the smothering blanket, eyes wide and mouth foaming. Now protected, Erwin stooped and grabbed her, slinging her over his shoulder and running back. He reached a medic, who was beginning to retreat. Their uniform was caked with mud and blood, their dishevelled ginger-looking hair weighed down with the leather straps of a gas mask. 

  
_“Take her! TAKE HER NOW! I have to go back and get my troops out!”_ He handed his casualty to them, reloading his gun as he began to turn away. A firm hand on his shoulder abruptly tried to stop him, _“You can’t commander! You MUST retreat! We have been compromised, it’s over, I doubt there is anyone left alive! Come back!”_ an incredulous voice urged him, muffled by the air filter. Erwin could barely see them through the drifting gas, and the masks made all anonymous.  
_“Retreat now! I am going, don’t make me order you again!”_ Erwin replied sternly, and he turned away. He took to the air, trying to get above the gas, searching for any of his troops he could aid. How had this happened? How had his successful formation been picked apart by the T.I.T.A.N rebels as easily as a game of chess? _Did they know we were_ _coming?_

  
   Just then, another warping detonation shook the air, only it was right beneath him. Searing pain burned his entire being, hot fire and agony rose from his feet right up through him, vision blurred and deafened as white noise bounced through his skull. He cried out, screamed, scrambled for his triggers, but all to no avail. Erwin was falling, flung off course by the sheer force of the eruption. Falling fast and heavy, down. Falling down into the sea of mud and gas below…


	2. Nocturnal Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE SEE THE TRIGGER WARNINGS IN TAGS, ****TRIGGER WARNINGS APPLY IN THIS CHAPTER****  
> Chapter again inspired by a song, 'Lost and Found' from 'Still Searching' by Senses Fail. Quoted lyrics theirs.

_****_

**_“_ ** **_This is the part where I'll admit_ **

**_I'm getting what I deserve_ **

**_And now I'm lost at sea_ **

**_I'm drowning in what I won't be_ **

**_I'm haunted by the sound (Sweet sound of my last breath)”_ **

 

__

****

Erwin woke with a start, bolting up right. His chest heaved and this skin was coated in a film of sweat. Darkness. Safety. He was safe. There was no bullets, or blood, or gas. Just the comforting dark and repressed din of the city outside.

He shoved the covers off him frustrated, and scrubbed a clammy hand over his face. Too many nightmares had made this a routine for the ex-commander. He sighed languidly and rose from the bed, the night air cooling his sticky skin. PTSD had been their diagnosis. Erwin could believe that. A recurring nightmare of that last battle, his final chance to take rebel territory in Shiganshina. But at such a cost. _Such a cost…_

He padded to the kitchen, and retrieved his cigarettes from the table. Leaning against the table, and with shaking fingers, he placed it in his mouth and lit it, inhaling deeply the ashen flavour to calm his nerves. Still his limbs trembled. He hung his head, pushing back a slick mop of dirty blonde hair from his face. He knew it was in his head, in his sub-conscience. Yet his body betrayed him. It was still in a war-zone.

He glanced up at the digital clock on the cabinet, its blood red digits disrupting the sentinel darkness. 4:32 AM. Some sleep was better than none he supposed. That will make about 14 hours this week. An improvement for an insomniac.

He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain, gazing at the city of Trost in all its late night glory, opening the window wide to dispel the accumulating smoke. The smoke reminded him of that on the battle field that day, the thick heavy trails seeming to defy gravity as they drifted up into that blood-red sky. And the gas, the abhorrent suffocating gas that drifted across, halting soldiers in their tracks as they began to choke and gasp for any possible clean air… Erwin felt his throat tighten and his lungs begin to clench. Sucking in air, he quickly stubbed out his cigarette and sat on the table. Panic attacks were also, apparently, part of the diagnosis. The suffering war veteran, honorably discharged from the Survey Corps. He breathed heavily. A shooting pain from his left limb had him trying to sooth a muscle that wasn’t there. He glanced down, to see his absent left arm. He had had to have it amputated when they found him. Half dead and barely conscious on the field, sucked down in the boggy mud, as close to Hell as he’s ever been. But there was nothing he could do now. He rolled his shoulder. Phantom limb pain- another theory put forward by the military doctors. The ex-commander wafted the thin air where his arm used to be, shaking his head.

   A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and he stood once again. He opened the fridge, and got the whiskey bottle from the door. Pouring himself a glass, like he had only 5 hours ago, he sat down and shot the poison. The warm and abrasive liquid worked its way down, and Erwin poured another. They had warned him. Oh, they had warned him. ‘Don’t indulge in any self-destructive habits’, ‘Don’t give up, there is plenty to do outside of the military, look at the other veterans’ etc. Erwin understood that they were attempting to help him, but his pride prevented him from turning to others. He wasn’t interested. He didn’t care.

   The moonlight drifted in through the window, illuminating a little of his apartment. He’d bought the place with the savings he had, but an Army pension wouldn’t accommodate him for long. Erwin would need a job, but that was the last thing he wanted to do right now…

   Scattered around the kitchen were the discarded bottles from the last few weeks. They reflected back the light, like sins exposed in a confessional. He put his face in his hand. How had he become like this? He reached up and traced the fresh cuts on his upper left forearm. The beauty of self-infliction was that it was secret, easily hidden. Erwin let a tear roll down his face. He felt displaced. He felt lonely, and he felt lost. He didn’t know what to do anymore. How can he cope like this? Drinking to the point of black out every night is not the solution he told himself. Nor is substance abuse. Or hurting himself just to feel something. But he is so lost without the Survey Corps. He doesn’t know any other world outside of war and battle planning.

He finished his drink, and with an outburst of anger, swept the glass off the table, letting it fall to the floor and smash into pieces. He let more tears fall, let them roll down his face like a petulant child. Where was composure now? Where was help now? What had gone so wrong back then on the field? Why had his strategy failed?

   His whole body tremored and shook as he cried, the release of 8 months tears streaming down his ragged face. Tears for those he’s known and lost, fought alongside and lost, those he’d loved and let go, for the mother he’d lost, and for the soldiers of the Survey Corps he’d massacred with his incompetence. 300 went into battle that day against the T.I.T.A.N rebels. Barely 20 of them made it back alive. ‘The Brutal Butchery of Mr. Smith’ the media had dubbed it. ‘Butcher’, ‘Murderer’. Any synonymous name under the sun, he’d acquired it. The press had only just begun to leave him be, but he had vicious looks from those who recognised him. Those disapproving, conceited stares. He could see them in his head, at the forefront of his mind. They wonder why he became a recluse. They didn’t see what he saw.

Erwin tried to push away the negativity, these all-encompassing, self-loathing thoughts that threatened to swallow him whole. He shook his head and stood again, lighting another cigarette. He wiped his face, hand still shaking, shoulder still aching. But it was what he deserved. He had reasoned that he deserved to suffer for what he did, and he didn’t need the publicity to suffer. Not the accusations of ignorant journalists, or their bullshit stories. He had the faces of the dying in his head every night. The faces of the comrades he’s let down, and the contempt higher-ups telling him he was discharged. More tears came, but Erwin let them fall. He grabbed the bottle, and chugged half of it down, feeling it burn his stomach and he swayed slightly.

Then, an idea struck him. Erwin’s resolve came quickly, and as much as he tried to stump it out, it seemed more appealing than any other solution he could summon. He walked to the cupboard, and pulled from it the box of sleeping pills he had been prescribed. They hadn’t worked. But they were strong. What if he took 10 of them? Would that be enough? Or maybe all 15 that were left? Could that end it? Could it stop those images? Stop the guilt that strangled him every waking minute of every God-dam day? The guilt that wrapped around his heart and squeezed it endlessly? The guilt that crushed him mentally. This Guilt. Guilt that had him embracing everything he knew he shouldn’t, just to try and forget. To punish himself.

Would it stop everything? Could this be the oblivion required? To stop this kind of Hell?

   Erwin had tried so hard to forget. He recalled the spotted bruising on his legs, now scarred from the insertion of numerous needles. Stronger substances couldn’t even help him. Even opiates couldn’t make him forget his failings as a Commander.

He stared at the bottle for a long time. He wasn’t sure how long. Time blurred for him, just as night blurred into day. Just as past blurred into present. He drank continually, until the small font, only just visible by the silver of the moon, blurred past recognition. He finally glanced the clock again. 5:03 AM. It was still dark outside. He felt the goose bumps rise on his skin, and he began to shiver. His tears had tried, and Erwin believed that it was due to the fact that he had none left. Only this odd, final exultation.

Death, in his hand.

   He nodded to himself, and, pills in hand, began to walk to the bathroom. Hopefully, nobody would find him in time. Hopefully, no one would care enough. He staggered back through his bedroom, past the window, and took one last gaze at the moon. She would be the only one who knew. The only one who would see this unfurl. That silent, ever-dancing sentient. She won’t tell. Even if she did, Erwin thought he couldn’t fall any deeper into disgrace anyway.

   He reached the bathroom, hand trembling. He popped the bottle open, he tilting it. In the darkness, he felt the pills fall into his hand. How he had begged, begged to exchange his life for one of those of the soldiers in battle that day. How he would willingly give anything he had to revive any of them. How he would endure any pain, any thinkable torture, just to see one of them again, alive and well. Would he see them now? After this?

   Suddenly, there was a clash in the next room. He jumped alert, the pills spilling onto the floor. Cursing, he peered cautiously around the door. But there was no silhouette of any person. Then, in the remaining moonlight, Erwin caught sight of the creature on his carpet. It shook its feathers and seemed to look round dazed. Erwin slowly moved the cabinet, and flicked on the lamp. The bird jumped and began to frantically flap around, large saucer-eyes adapting to the new light, squinting at him. Erwin realised that it was an owl, a small one, disorientated as it struggled for flight. Erwin crouched low by the door frame, trying not to move as to scare the poor thing away. Despite the interruption to his plan, Erwin gazed in awe at the small animal.

It seemed as lost as he was.

   Eventually, it stopped moving, and resigned itself to standing on the carpet, staring at Erwin exhausted. Weary nocturnal eyes glanced around, and rested on him again. Erwin moved forward slowly on the balls of his feet, clinging onto the bed frame to steady himself.

_“It’s alright,”_ he soothed as best he could, voice hoarse from lack of use, _“…there now. It’s_ _alright. I won’t hurt you. What are you doing here?”_

The owl made no move, gaze fixed on the veteran as he got closer. Erwin then noticed the difference in its eyes. They were contrasted, and he deduced that the poor animal was consequently blind in one of them.

_“You can’t stay here. You belong out there.”_

The bird swayed on its feet, just as Erwin did. It stumbled slightly and abruptly moved away as Erwin got closer. He stood, steading himself on the furniture.

_“You seem too tired to care, eh?”_ he cooed lightly. The owl retreated to the corner of the room, fearful eyes on him again. Erwin padded quietly to the kitchen, and quickly opened the fridge. He retrieved the stewing steak he had bought days ago. Somehow, through the intoxication, his mind seemed clear and he cut the meat into small pieces. He plated it and slowly moved back to the bedroom. He placed it in front of the owl, who, after some reluctance, gulped down the meat greedily.

_“You poor thing. But you don’t want to stay here. I’m not good to be around_.” Erwin laughed to himself as he watched. Carefully, he opened the doors to the balcony by the open window. The owl saw the opportunity, and took its escape, staggering out the door. But before taking flight, it turned and looked up at the ex-commander once more. An unusual gaze of recognition? Erwin liked to think of it as a silent thank you. With that it was gone, headed towards the nearby trees. Erwin followed, and stood staring in its direction, bare chested in the cold night.

He suddenly grew thoughtful, wondering about primal instincts, life and death. The instinct to survive was in built in all creatures. They all had a will to survive, wanted to live. Why did he now not conform to that pattern? A distant hooting came to him over the wind, and Erwin, for the first time in a long time, smiled. He stood and listened, watching the moon sink low in the sky, and saw the sunrise in the East touch the city, striking the land to fire. Trost’s lights went off, and the city slowly busied below. The sight, which he admitted he had never taken the full time to admire, had something rising within him. The sunrise in the sky, the gratitude of a small creature, it left Erwin Smith with a feeling. He wasn’t sure what. But it was there, and he felt it. Erwin went back inside.

   He closed the doors and window. His head sung with the alcohol, and his eyes drooped with fatigue.

Maybe today was not his day. Not today.

He just managed to reach the bed, collapsing upon it and drifting over the edge of consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to update around my educational commitments where possible, so there will be delays. Thank you for reading x


	3. Black Out

Erwin awoke in a haze. Beneath his nose, his cheap bed sheets stunk of sweat and whiskey, and his stomach churned as it tried to rid itself of the poison he had so willingly consumed earlier that morning.

He pulled himself upright, slowly rising off the bed. The afternoon sunlight streamed in through the netted window, the light blinding him in a white wash as his eyes adjusted. Erwin’s head span with the self-inflicted sickness of too much alcohol, and, on unsteady feet, he wobbled to the bathroom before wretching into the toilet.

The veteran gasped through the vomit, gripping onto the porcelain with his one hand as he heaved, feeling his insides contract as the gross bile rose up his throat. Bile, acidic and bloody hit the bowel, and Erwin pushed back his hair as it gradually eased.

_I have to stop this._

He finally sat back, flushing the toilet, spitting out the last of the horrid concoction from between his teeth. He rose and sat on the toilet as his head seemed to orbit his body, the drowsiness not yet wearing off. Gazing about the bathroom dazed, Erwin noted the pills littering his floor, and the full memory of his ultimate low came back to him. He stared at the tablets. Bright white, perfect little pills- a mosaic carpet. Ice white, like little ice bergs on the sea of ash-grey tile. Ice bergs in an endless sea of misery, blocks of safety and resolve. A solution for getting out of this sea…

Erwin shook his head, wiping his mouth on his arm. He was going to do it last night. How did he, once the most successful commander of the Survey Corps, come to be such a mess as this? _Why was everything such a mess?_

Carefully, he bent down and picked the pills up, one by one, systematically putting them back into the bottle. He held the bottle up, looking at it once more through eyes that couldn’t focus on the small font. A bottle of quiet resolve. A bottle of resolution. Tentatively, with a shaky hand, he place the bottle on the bathroom counter. Then, he caught himself off-guard and glanced the mirror. Erwin stood in disbelief.

 A man stood and stared back at him. He looked older, skin paler, with sunken eyes. Eyes, once a pale blue, were now bloodshot, the darker tones of orange-brown stretching out from his pupils like an invasive weed, threatening to smother that blue to forever. He leaned forward, and gazed into eyes that seemed empty, hopeless and so devoid of life. Erwin rubbed his face, fingers tracing the large, dark circles beneath them, his bushy eyebrows and his lengthening beard. He truly did as look as shit as he felt.

The ex-commander peered down at his torso. Upon his ribs were the battle scars from his years of service, knife wounds now healed, a bullet wound to his hip from years ago. A network of deteriorating muscle moved beneath yellowing skin as he twisted round. Finally, his eyes met his arm, amputated just above the elbow, a gruesome stub of scarred tissues and bone. Above it, the purple white scars from other wounds, self-inflicted by his own self-hate. There were too many to count. Scar upon scar, layered like a matted carpet around his arm. A biological band of detrimental purple lightning, of suffering and self-loathing.

_What have I become…_

Erwin gazed, hollow and ashamed. His body was buckling under the weight of ill health and addiction, whilst his mind strained beneath the weight of his guilt. But he couldn’t cry. He had ran out of tears. He felt his heart sink and his breathing quicken as the same angry and visceral self-hatred rose up once more and, losing control, Erwin clenched his fist and drove it straight into the mirror. The sound of smashing glass rung through the silent apartment as it split, cracking randomly, smaller pieces clinking into the sink below. Erwin breathed as deeply as possible, trying to calm an internal storm. He abruptly turned and began coughing violently. Avoiding the scattered glass, he quickly staggered to the kitchen and leaned over the sink as he struggled through the sudden paroxysm, lungs labouring. He spat crimson blood into the sink and sipped air through his burning throat, hacking up more blood as it intensified and then began to lessen. His head swam as he regained some composure, standing straight and trying to ignore the shooting pains in his chest.

Gasping, he retrieved a glass from the cupboard and quickly drank some water, feeling it move painfully down to his stomach. He swilled his mouth of the blood and bile, spitting clumsily into the sink. He hated himself. For everything he had and hadn’t done, for his guilt, and for the fact that he felt that he deserved everything he got. He _knew_ he deserved the pain. _Knew_ he deserved to suffer. He straightened again, eyeing the broken glass shards from the night before upon the kitchen floor. He sighed, then quickly stooped and grabbed dust pan from under the sink, sweeping the shards up and depositing them into the bin. The glass was as broken as he was, but nobody had to know. Just as he discarded the glass, he discarded his feelings, quelling them with substance and poison. He buried the thoughts from the night before as best he could.

He crossed the room, and noting the lack of available alcohol, resigned himself to the realisation that he’d have to venture outside in order to get more. More. That’s what he needed after all. More poison to forget. Forget it all.

He went to the other bathroom, and stripping his boxers, stood under the warm stream of the shower. Erwin suddenly felt the toil and exhaustion of 10 years military service within his limbs and spirit. His body felt heavy, and his mind fit to burst beneath the heat. The heat of everything. He rested his head upon the tile, eyes tired, as the whiskey began to wear off.

Everything had fallen apart. He’d become a worthless junkie and a danger to himself, fallen down into the pits of pity and despair. And Erwin believed that he wouldn’t be climbing out anytime soon.

He quickly scrubbed his hair and face, his lacerated hand stinging sharply beneath the strong alkaline soap.

_Shit. I barely even felt it…_

His hand was already swelling, the blue purple bruising spreading across his knuckles, and traces of blood flakes on his fingers. The red liquid trickled down his hand from his wrist and into the shower basin below. However, he peered down with acceptance. He’d endured heart ache worse than any cuts. They were nothing.

He slowly stepped from the shower, wrapping a towel around him, and began to locate some clothes. He picked out tracksuit bottoms that were now too big for him, and a loose grey hoodie with some tatty trainers.

_Fitting for the stereotypical addict…_

Wrapping some tissue around his hand, grabbing his keys, and tying a knot in his loose left sleeve, he left the apartment, pulling the hood up over his head. Anything to keep the world out. He lumbered down the stairs, 1 flight at a time, slowly. He couldn’t take the lift, too many people. He disliked people.

Finally, he made it outside, the city air hitting him and his stomach churned again. Swallowing down the putrid mouthful, he began at pace towards the local supermarket. It was the closest option, and Erwin just wanted to get home as soon as possible. He received some odd stares. Some judgemental, others pitiful, and some from children as they pondered to themselves as to why he only had one arm. But Erwin ignored them. He was used to it by now. He just needed more alcohol. More. Then he could go home.

He reached the market, the bright lighting and sterile white floor making his eyes burn. He reached the liquor section, and grabbing two bottles, made his way to the checkout. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he heard some men talking purposely aloud.

_Fuck…_

_“Look, it’s Commander Smith. You know the one who was dismissed from the military!”_ the man, whom Erwin guessed was in his early 20s but beyond his recognition, nudged this friend, a distorted grin upon his face.

_“Oh yes, I do remember. He’s the one who massacred his troops in that battle in T.I.T.A.N territory.”_ the other added viciously, and the pair came like swarm upon him.

Erwin stilled, keeping his gaze low, not meeting their eyes. He already knew what he’d find. The ignorance of pathetic civilians, who knew nothing.

“ _Yes, ‘Butcher Erwin Smith’. You piece of shit, sending those soldiers to their deaths. No wonder they dismissed you.”_

At this point some passers-by had stopped, taking in the scene quizzically. But Erwin didn’t care. He felt his throat tighten and his chest contract as his panic rose. He had to get out. He had to go home. He tried to continue to the check out, not making any reply, head still lowered.

_“What’s wrong sir?? Did they blow out your fucking ear drums or something?”_

_“No, just his arm off!”_

The pair of relentless men sniggered cruelly. Erwin bit his tongue, hand clenching around the bottle in his hand, trying again to carry on, only to be stopped as the two bombarded him. His breathing became erratic as he struggled for air, and he couldn’t get enough into his lungs, as they seemed to twist and scream for air. His knees grew weaker as they threated to give out beneath him. He had to keep it together.

_“What do we have here?”_ one asked sarcastically, ripping the bottle from the veteran’s hand.

_“Whiskey I see. Trying to drink away the guilt are we?”_

Erwin gasped for air as he tried to get past. Finally he peered up at the two, but blinded by his escalating panic, he only saw a blur, eyes and brain starved of oxygen. He placed the remaining bottle down best he could on a nearby shelf.

_“Just look at him! A fucking alcoholic, you’re useless!”_ the man came closer to Erwin’s face, intimidating, and making the ex-commander recoil. The man lowered his voice slightly, _“You should have been killed that day you know. Not those poor kids. You’re fucking pathetic. I’ve read all the stories-they’re all in the papers. I know who you are. You’re a disgrace to the Survey Corps.”_

Erwin’s knees buckled, as he ran out of air, chest heaving as more people seemed to crowd in the corners of his vision. He saw them again. His troops. The field, the gas, the explosions. It was too much.

Too much for him to bear…

He felt humiliated. Ashamed. Disgraced. He felt it all. Through the blind and deafening panic, Erwin suddenly caught a loud protest from the crowd. He kept his eyes low and hood up, gasping and heaving as all air left him. He folded inward, trying to escape the public display. He wanted the Earth to swallow him whole. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to die.

_“What the fuck do you think you’re doing??”_ a voice called out to the pair of men. A distant voice, one he thought he recognised, rang in his head and a pair of legs came into view as the person stood in front of him. There was a sudden commotion, but Erwin could no longer breathe, no longer see. He blacked out.

*******

He came round shortly after. He was lying on his bed. Back in his apartment. The sun had sunk lower in the sky, but the evening still dazzled him, and his head was laden with the onset of a hangover. Then it came back to him in an instant. Who were those men? Just civilians? The humiliation hit him square in the chest and he groaned, deflated and depressed.

_“Shit…”_ he cursed quietly, rubbing his hand over his face, then stopped in confusion. It had been dressed, tied together with an ostentatious pink bandage. He frowned. He also noted the lack of empty bottles in his room, and the polished side boards.

_“What the fuck…?”_ he queried to himself. He rose from the bed, his body protesting and muscles stiff. He rolled his left shoulder out. A sudden clatter from his kitchen warned him of a stranger in his home, and he quickly stooped to retrieve the knife that he kept under the bed. Unsheathing it, he grasped it best he could with his injured hand, shaking with anticipation. He cautiously approached the door, adrenaline beginning to flood him and body tense. Suddenly, it burst open with a loud bang that echoed through his head painfully.

A youngish woman came into view. She had a large pair of glasses on her nose, enlarged brown eyes, a messy dark brown ponytail and a lengthy fringe that obscured her face slightly. Her eyes widened at the knife, but a cheesy, toothy smile adorned her face, and her eyes wrinkled as she began to laugh. She leaned against the door frame snorting to herself, the tray in her hands jiggling. Erwin noticed it was his tray, and he was completely at a loss, his mouth slightly open, perplexed, as the joyful laughter ground against his ears.

_“Darling, you are so funny! There’s no need for such an aggressive greeting! I know you’re pleased to see me, but put it away!”_ she stated in a sing-song voice. Ignoring Erwin’s raised knife, she breezed past and placed the tray on the bed side table. On it was a glass with a dissolving tablet, some paracetamol and a bar of chocolate.

_“Who are you? What are you doing in my flat? What do you want?”_ Erwin pushed sternly, voice croaky. He still didn’t lower the knife, despite the woman being clearly indifferent. She abruptly turned, and started towards him briskly with a serious expression and steely eyes. She grabbed his wrist and jerked it, and Erwin cried out as his knife clattered to the floor. She pushed her face closer, so she was only an inch or so away, holding tightly onto his wrist. Sincere eyes looked at him, and Erwin swore he recognised them.

_“You sure you don’t recognise me Commander Smith? I’m slightly hurt…”_ Then, her demeanour changed back to that of a playful teenager, a wide smile on her face again, and she released his wrist. She backed off, standing square in front of him, arms folded over her chest. Erwin’s confusion deepened, and his head began to throb with a headache as he tried to comprehend the woman.

_“Just kidding darling. It will come back to you soon enough. You couldn’t have drunk that much that you’d have forgotten about me. Although, you seemed to have given it your best shot…”_ she gazed around, and gesticulated. _“I took the liberty of doing a bit of cleaning for you, but, BY-THE-WALLS, I only got so far. With all due respect Commander, you’re in a bit of mess-”_

_“Ex-Commander. I’m not a member of the Survey Corps now.”_ Erwin snapped, meeting her gaze, but, again, she was un-phased. In a sudden burst of movement, she closed the space between them once more, and placed a long finger over his lips.

_“Hush now, we will get you sorted. You look a mess, and you clearly need some help. We will get you right again Eyebrows, don’t you fret.”_ she reiterated as she walked back to the cabinet to retrieve the glass, swirling it to dissolve the remaining powder at the bottom, and motioning to the thin air again.

   It then struck Erwin who she was. She had been an eccentric back in the day, and she had barely changed. Erwin’s jaw hit the floor as he stood wide-eyed with the realisation. He knew who had designated him that nickname. Years ago.

_“Good god. What are you doing here? I thought you were-”_ he started amazed, only to be cut off as she pushed the glass into his hand with 2 paracetamol capsules.

_“Shhhh! I’m not having a conversation with you when you’re half-cut and can barely see straight. Take these, eat some choccy, chillax!”_ She continued with the gesticulations, flailing her arms around, _“Chocolate makes everything better! And drink that, you look a bit rough.”_ She cheered playfully, smiling.

_“Thanks…”_ Erwin replied, still confused at the whole situation. He downed the tablets and took a swig of the glass. _“God, what the Hell is this? Are you trying to poison me?”_

_“It’s Dioralyte darling! And no more poison for you. Hydration for the win!”_ she shot him two thumbs up over her grin, winked at him and turned away again, picking up the tray.

_“But what are you doing here?”_ Erwin repeated, rubbing his temple as the throbbing intensified.

_Damn hangovers…_

She paused in the door way, tray under her arm, and placed a hand on her hip frivolously, eyebrows raised and eyes glowing with amusement.

_“Aww, Eyebrows! Did you not miss your good old Hanji Zoe??”_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dedicating this work to my girls and fellow cosplayers, for this story's inspiration and for sticking by me through the highs and the lows. You know who you are. Much love <3 xx  
> Thank you for reading x


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